Resolution
by Lynse
Summary: Danny's wary of seeing the Ghost Writer again, but it's almost Christmas, and his apology will mean more if it comes before the safety of the Christmas Truce. One-shot, written for the 2018 Christmas Truce


A/N: Written for the 2018 Christmas Truce; I was the Secret Santa for lavandula11235 on tumblr, who requested something with the Ghost Writer, so this is post- _The Fright before Christmas_. Standard disclaimers apply. Happy holidays, everyone!

* * *

Danny paused outside the Ghost Writer's mansion. Their last encountered hadn't been, well, the best experience of his life. And the Ghost Writer hadn't had a great time, either. Walker had only _just_ let him out of prison, a little fact Danny only knew because Ember had taunted him about it during her latest concert attempt in the Real World earlier today.

Ember clearly didn't need the Ghost Writer's help to write the lyrics to her hits, but Danny got the feeling they were friends, even if he hadn't seen them together. He wasn't sure she'd have known otherwise, at least not so soon, even though all his regular enemies were well aware of what had gone down when the Ghost Writer had broken the Christmas Truce last year.

But he might not have done that if Danny hadn't provoked him.

And Danny _had_ learned something from it all.

Danny took a deep breath and raised his fist to knock on the door, only to have it open in his face. "Uh—"

"You again!" the Ghost Writer cried. "Have you come to gloat?"

"Um, no." Danny dropped his hand and swallowed. "I, uh, actually came to apologize. For ruining your Christmas poem last year. And for just being a jerk. You're right. I needed to be taught a lesson. And I was, thanks to you." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I, uh, hope your copy of your new poem wasn't destroyed in prison."

"It was confiscated," the Ghost Writer said. He looked Danny up and down. "But you seem sincere this time." He stepped back and opened the door wider. "If you promise to destroy nothing else, you may come in."

Danny bit his lip, but he couldn't see anything that was a weapon—no pens, pencils, or worst of all keyboards—and he didn't really want the Ghost Writer to think he was rude and try to teach him another lesson in case he'd managed to get a new keyboard already and just had it in a different room.

He did notice that the fruit bowl was devoid of oranges, though. He smirked. He didn't think the Ghost Writer would let anyone get the better of him like that again. Getting rid of all non-rhyming fruit in his house was probably one of the first things he'd done.

The mental image was entertaining, but he was probably better off if the Ghost Writer didn't know that. "You know, it's kinda weird not to hear you rhyming after last time," Danny commented as he stepped through the doorway.

That turned out to be the wrong thing to say.

The Ghost Writer grinned and spread his arms wide. Danny started to regret coming inside. "Do you miss it already, the rhyme of Yuletide? The rhythm, the cadence, the meaning implied? It's simple to teach you a lesson anew—"

"No, no, no, no, I don't want you to!" Danny shook his head and held up his hands. "I don't want to be tied to your commands!" The last thing he wanted was another narration. "I swear, it was just an observation!"

"There's nothing wrong with rhyme," the Ghost Writer said. "Words don't lose their charm just because you're dead."

"I know that, I do," Danny insisted. "It's just that I don't want my words twisted!" He clapped his hands to his mouth and looked on in horror. "How did you—? When? When I crossed the border?"

Each ghost's lair is under their control, but it's an easy thing to forget on the whole. The borders aren't always clear, at the edge of a building or rock. How far they extend can be quite a shock.

"But you aren't typing," said Danny, peering about. "How are we in a story if you aren't writing it out?"

The Ghost Writer laughed and tapped the side of his head. "Not all stories are written where they can be read."

Danny could only stare in dismay; he didn't know the right words to say. He hadn't expected this show of power, hadn't thought the Ghost Writer would still be so sour. Breaking the rhyme would not break the curse. If he wasn't careful, he'd just make things worse.

Maybe if he kept quiet, he'd make it through?

"When I was in prison, I had to make do." The Ghost Writer shuddered and called up a chair. It was not the first time he'd conjured from air. The rhyme of his words reshaped their reality, and Danny didn't know how he'd ever break free. His lessons were learned, the final page turned. If he didn't know how he'd offended, how could he get this curse suspended?

"Stories don't end because they're forbidden; they'll keep spinning, even when hidden. I've carried this tale without whispering a word, and now its power is such that it doesn't need to be heard. It writes itself, as all good stories do. I don't need to think it for it to be true."

"But what does that _mean_?" poor Danny cried. The thought of a never-ending story had him terrified. He couldn't spend the rest of his life speaking in rhyme, but he didn't think Clockwork would let him go back in time. He didn't know what he had to fix, but if there wasn't something, why the Ghost Writer's tricks? Because that's what this was, this lure, this trap. It couldn't just be some lame Christmas recap.

"Words aren't just words," the Ghost Writer replied. "They cut, build, or paint, or act as a guide. They aren't to be thrown about without care; each nuance in meaning has its own flair. You speak without thinking, leaping not looking—"

"But I said I was sorry! Why stick me in another story?"

"Oh, but you didn't say sorry at all. Do you really mean you don't recall? You just said you'd needed a lesson, that you were a jerk," the Ghost Writer pointed out with a smirk.

Danny rolled his eyes and let out a sigh. He wasn't convinced the Ghost Writer would make a good ally. "Look, I'm sorry I destroyed your book. Now can you please let me off the hook?"

The Ghost Writer's grin spread from ear to ear. "How am I to tell you're sincere?"

"Because I'm not blasting you," Danny ground out. "You're not standing in ashes; that should erase your doubt. I'm here because I hoped we could make amends. I actually thought we could be friends. You didn't seem so bad when we fought last year, and I did need that lesson on holiday cheer. But that was before I knew you held a grudge, so I'm not sure I should offer Mom's homemade fudge." But he pulled it out from his pocket just in case; if nothing else, he could rub it in the Ghost Writer's face.

The Ghost Writer's eyebrows climbed to his hair. "You really did come to clear the air? I was sure you were here out of spite. The Christmas Truce doesn't begin till midnight!"

"That's my point! It's not hard to deduce. If we start as friends, we don't _need_ the Truce. I don't fight with all ghosts, just the ones who invade. I want to protect my home; that's not a charade. If you don't attack, then we've no need to fight—"

"And our own truce can be written this very night." The Ghost Writer smiled and got to his feet. "We'll write something up, free of deceit. You can breathe easy, young Danny Phantom. I promise not to throw another tantrum."

"Then why are we still speaking in rhyme?"

"Oh, don't worry; that will end in due time. The story's not finished, not quite, you see, but it'll end soon enough, and then you'll be free."

"Then write something up and let's get this done! I can't wait for _soon enough_ to come. My family will miss me, and they'll see it this time. If _they're_ not part of your story, they'll notice the rhyme. Their arguing won't distract them this year; they'll suspect ghosts and they'll grab their gear. I don't want to be chased all over town, so just get a pen and write something down. We can work out the details later!"

"Then you'll trust me to be the creator?" Paper and pen appeared in the Ghost Writer's hand; he scrawled a few words, as if he'd had this planned. "This document will be binding, you know. I won't mince words, not with a former foe."

Danny shrugged and confessed, "Trust is part of the deal. If we're being honest, I wouldn't get the whole spiel. Just draw up some terms, and we'll go from there. I'm hoping your conscience will keep you fair."

The Ghost Writer jotted down a few lines before showing Danny where they would sign. _The Christmas Truce,_ it simply read, _will be year-round for us instead. All grievances are to be aired, no necessary details spared. (This contract is to be annually reviewed to avoid the development of an irresolvable feud.)_

Danny laughed and signed his name, and then the Ghost Writer did the same.

"Now, I believe you brought some fudge." The Ghost Writer nodded at the bundle in Danny's left hand. "Why not celebrate the end of a grudge?"

Danny's eyes went wide, and his voice climbed. "Wait, I thought we were done with the rhyming! Isn't reaching an agreement perfect timing?"

The Ghost Writer chuckled. "This isn't the end but the start of something new." Danny groaned, and the Ghost Writer added, "At best, it's the end of a chapter, but it's far from the end of the story. We're still writing that."

"Wait, so we aren't—? The rhyming's actually done?" Danny grinned. "The rhyming's actually done!"

"You don't need to be quite so excited about it," the Ghost Writer said, his face pulling into a slight frown. "Scripting a story is hardly the worst that's happened to you."

Danny made a face. "Forgive me if writers don't seem to be particularly kind to me. Usually. I mean, that's a generalization, but you tried to frame me for ruining Christmas last year like some sort of Grinch—"

"And was that characterization completely out of place?"

"—and Tucker's told me some people write stuff about Phantom and—" Danny shuddered. "Living my life is enough of an adventure without people writing me as the main character in their stories!"

The Ghost Writer's eyebrows shot up. "If you're so sure your life is already like a story, then how do you know it's not being written as we speak?"

"Because I don't sound like a greeting card anymore?" Danny shrugged. "I dunno. I haven't heard about anyone else like you. There's not some sort of secret club, is there? Where someone's actually writing out my life, even the words I'm saying right now, and making me do stuff? Because I have had enough of being controlled."

The Ghost Writer straightened his glasses. Danny wondered if it was some kind of nervous habit, because they'd looked straight enough to him. "I am the only ghost I know with my unique talents."

Danny suspected there was a _but_ coming. He didn't want to hear it, didn't want to think about the possibility right now when he had so much else to do, so he spoke up before the Ghost Writer had a chance to continue. "Great." He tore open the fudge and broke off a chunk for each of them, holding one in the Ghost Writer's direction. "Here's to Christmas Truces, then."

He could get the full story—or at least as much as the Ghost Writer knew of it—tomorrow. When everyone else in the Ghost Zone was obliged to play nice. If anyone out there could write stuff and have it come true for him, he didn't want any of his enemies getting ideas. And maybe he'd get lucky for once, and it really would be nothing. He'd cross that bridge when he came to it, if he came to it.

For now, he could at least celebrate a small victory.

"To Christmas Truces," the Ghost Writer echoed, taking the piece of fudge, "and to the stories we all write in our own ways."


End file.
